


The World As We Know It (Was Wrong All Along)

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: AU, F/M, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Maybe Maybe Not, NO ONE KNOWS, this thing might have smut?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of some peace and quiet."</p><p>Harold Hart, world-renowned tailor and aforementioned single man, is not looking for love, least of all with Gary Unwin, the youngest son of a financially suffering family, and yet here he is. It is not the worst thing he has ever decided to do. </p><p>Hartwin Regency!AU inspired by healthy discussion on tumblr, the idea of a Harry Hart!Darcy, and also a great deal of shouty messages between myself and a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to getinthefuckingjaeger. This is for everyone who has been so very patient with me as of late, despite the mountain of prompts in my inbox. 
> 
> This will be multi-chaptered and has been roughly outlined, so expect updates weekly. If there are issues with the dialogue, speech pattern-wise, please, let me know, and I'll try to work on it for the next chapter and edit this one accordingly.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of some peace and quiet.

Harry Hart was not, indeed, a man to be trifled with and though his temperament had little to do with his amassed wealth, everyone avoided him nonetheless. Everyone except James Merlin, fellow tailor in his employ, and incidentally, childhood friend. Mr. Merlin followed him closely now, despite Harry’s quick footfalls down the thin corridor, measuring tape still around his neck as he ignored Merlin, who was flapping a letter wildly about in front of him, very nearly catching the shoulder of his employer with the edge of the parchment and earning him a very, in Harry’s opinion, deserved glare.

The parlor was small, but comfortable and Harry ignored his friend as he seated himself in front of an empty fireplace, the late July heat of London seeping in through the windows, the clamor of the street below muffled by the glass panes that reflected the early afternoon sunlight.

Harry was comfortable here, in the small room, with his own footstool, his own furniture, and his own painting of Charlemagne. It was said the painting had been absconded from France sometime in the 17th century, and surely that his ownership of such a rare artwork was illegal, but Harry Hart simply admired the placement of the painting above the mantle, admiring the strong features of the man who united France, and, by all accounts, started Europe.

The scent of pine wood furniture reminded Harry of his childhood, of the trees and forests surrounding his village, and he leaned back into the comfortable cushion, listening to Merlin speak.  

“Hart, I’m only encouragin’ ye to go out of concern for the hosts. It would be improper to decline such an invitation— from the hostess herself, Mrs. Unwin of Locksley!— and ye must find a suitable wife—”

Merlin’s face whitened significantly, his face pale as the milk Harry was now pouring into his saucer, as his old friend sent him a glare to match even that of Medusa.

As it was, Merlin recovered quickly, and unfortunately for Harry, the powers of the Greek legend were not bestowed upon him in that moment.

“Forgive me for sayin’ so, m’ old friend, but ye must choose a wife, and soon, if yer good fortune and yer belov’d shop will survive well past yer own lifetime.” Merlin nodded around the room, gesturing to his feet, where, below the floor, was the main floor of a well maintained, very well off tailor shop. Anyone who was anyone in London often found themselves in want of the very best suits, riding coats, and formal dinner suits that Harry Hart, tailor extraordinaire, had to offer.

“And forgive me for saying so, _old friend,_ but I do not recall giving you permission or requesting your opinion on the current state of my private affairs, Merlin.” Harry raised an eyebrow, more to his point, as Merlin let his hand fall to his lap, the letter resting loosely between thin fingers. Merlin drew his eyebrows together, and Harry watched as his friend poured his own tea, pausing to adjust his spectacles on the bridge of his nose.

Harry smiled over his cup and took a long drink, the tea scaldingly hot, but he took no mind, instead simply snatching up the letter thathad fallen to the floor in James’ excited flurry of activity. The green velvet of his working coat caught the light, and Harry toyed with the cuff of his shirt before reading aloud.

“ _Dear Mr. Harold Hart and colleague,_

_Mr. and Mrs. Leopold Unwin invite you to their home on the 10 th of August, the year 1816, to partake in the joyous celebration of their newest addition, Miss Daisy Unwin, and to mark the celebration with a dance in her honor. _

_The celebration will be held at their home, Locksley House, and accommodations will be made accordingly as replies are accepted._

_Mr. and Mrs. Unwin hope to see you both there and request that you are prepared for the activities for the week, which will include riding, shooting, and a formal dinner hosted in Miss Daisy Unwin’s honor. If you are unable to prepare as noted, however, arrangements will be made so as to cater to your best comfort._

_Please confirm your intent via letter no later than the 27 th of July._

_Very sincerely,_

_Mr. and Mrs. Leopold Unwin_

_Locksley House, York Co.”_

Harry suppressed a snort.

“How very sincere, indeed. They no more penned this in their own hand as I am Napoleon of France.”

James Merlin huffed a sigh from behind his saucer, and his hand came up to mop the top of his bald head with a kerchief, sweat beading at his temple.

“But just think how nice and cool it’ll be in the north, aye?”

Harry simply sighed; it would be a long day indeed.

“If I am inclined to accept, know that it is out of respect for Mrs. Unwin, and not for the desire to rid myself of your incessant nagging, James.”

James Merlin was very proud of himself indeed, and if he was smug about it, he certainly did not hide it from his friend.

That very night, Harry Hart began to pack, unawares that no amount of moodiness or glum-faced resignation would change the way his heart pounded excitedly in his chest. Good fortune or no, Harold Hart’s life was to be changed forever.


	2. The Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Hart meets Mr. and Mrs. Unwin. 
> 
> Later, he meets a young, mysterious man who is more than he seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if the dialogue is off in any way, please, feel free to let me know. The story will pick up from here, I just wanted to set up the premise a bit.

Despite the jovial country music, complete with a full quartet of musicians and a piano forte perched inconspicuously in the corner and the beautiful ballroom, Harold Hart did not dance, and anyone who thought otherwise was more fool than not. Of course, even in his middle-aged years, he was thought to be handsome, if aloof, a fringe of chestnut curls falling over a furrowed brow and world-weary dark eyes, silver hairs tapering at his temples— this caused no shortage of young women casting flirty glances to where he stood next to the wall, a bust of the house’s previous owner staring up at him with cool, marble eyes and chiseled features. Dressed in his best, Harry still felt strangely out of place, though he’d never made a suit he felt so at ease in; the snug cotton of his shirt was warm against his skin, cravat hanging comfortably from his neck, the ensemble complete with an olive formal jacket, high-waisted cream trousers, and black shoes that shone so intensely Harry was sure he might catch his own reflection where he to glace down. 

Merlin himself was currently berating him for his “lackluster” behavior (Harry had not the heart to tell his friend that this was indeed the last thing he wanted to be doing) and suggesting that he go to bed, given that “The sour look on your face is akin to what one might experience had they eaten a bad pudding!”, but Harry only turned his ear away, scanning the crowd for some blessed familiar face.

He found none, instead facing a room filled with the red and gold of soldiers in uniform and girls quickly hiding blushes beneath fans. 

His tolerance for the young girl at the piano forte, perhaps a mere fourteen, was quickly wearing out, and he grew impatient with keeping up this pretense. 

Merlin stood next to him, smiling at any girl or woman that looked his way, silent and unmoving, despite the jovial laughter and merry-making that Harry was sure to get his Scot’s blood pumping. Instead of joining in the festivities, James stood with him, a silent bulwark against anyone looking for attention that Harry so clearly did not want to give. 

White plaster walls vaulted into a great ceiling and gold etchings hung down between colorful tapestries that boasted a myriad of scenes, from hunters riding atop dappled mares through the forest with their dogs at their feet, the very house Harry stood in depicted in the background, warm and inviting, to a grand ball, very much like this one. A great painting stood mounted on the wall opposite Harry, and he let his eyes drift over the depiction of the current family of the house, clearly having been painted some time ago, as there was no young toddler in the painting. A young man, perhaps of seventeen at the time, stared out of the painting with crystal blue eyes, unblinking and forever laughter-filled and his parents, the current Mr. and Mrs. Unwin, were the image of perfect propriety as they stared out, stiff smiles and blank eyes— but the boy, there was something peculiar about the way his gaze seemed to spark the tiniest bit of life as Harry looked on… Harry looked away, eyes roaming the room milling with life disinterestedly.

Nothing more than a simple painting. Nothing more. 

Hands tucked behind his back, Harry leaned in to speak to Merlin, saying, “Merlin, I must take my leave of this party. I do not feel I should subject myself to this—”

Harry’s movement to leave was interrupted by the gracious arrival of the party’s hosts, with Merlin exclaiming, perhaps too loudly, “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Unwin! Mr. Hart was just asking after you!” Merlin cut him off quickly, nodding in greeting to one singular Mr. Leopold Unwin. Handsome and clean cut, Mr. Unwin nodded graciously back, only to be interrupted by a woman, who, by her looks and despite her age, was very much the mirror image of the woman who gazed out of the portrait behind her. Elegant curls flowed down the sides of her face, rouge spread about her cheeks, a girlish smile tilting her lips upwards in what Harry decided must be a permanent smile. 

“Mrs. Unwin, you look as if you haven’t aged a day,” Harry murmured as he bent his lips to her hand, smirking at the cheery giggle that erupted from her lips. 

“Oh, Mr. Hart, you do know how to charm a woman, do you not? How is London these days? I fear I am not quite as able to make the journey south as frequently as I would like. The knees, you know…” 

Harry nodded sympathetically— for all of Merlin’s complaints and Harry’s own dour mood, he could be quite charming when the necessity arose. 

“I must say, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more, even after all these years.”

“Oh, surely it cannot have been so long since we last saw occasion to see each other, my dear friend!” 

“Some twenty-five years, I think it must have been.” 

“Oh my! Well, we do have some introductions to make, haven’t we?” Mrs. Unwin cast her eyes around, seemingly searching for someone familiar. “It seems my eldest son is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he is the garden— dear,” Mrs. Unwin turned to Leopold in distress, her eyes frantic, “would you check for him? It is most impolite of him to be absent when there are people he must meet!”

“Of course—” 

“Oh, please, you needn’t bother the young man on my account. In fact, I was looking to get some fresh air myself,” Harry was sure to smile at that; the last thing he wanted to do was upset the hosts. 

“Oh, very well, Mr. Hart. I gather we’ll be seeing you in the morning, when you’re well rested and refreshed. It must have been quite the journey from London.” 

“It was, and I thank you for your hospitality.” With a curt nod and a smile twitching at his lips, Harry excused himself from the small cluster, leaving Merlin to his own devices. Surely he would have an earful later on, but he could not bring himself to care. 

The garden was lovely, rosebushes peeking around every corner, and a great willow stood at the center of the courtyard. Lanterns twinkled in the darkness, and even as the fog rolled in, skirting the edges of the property, Harry took a deep breath, thankful for the quiet. The piano forte had given way to a peaceful waltz, and Harry closed his eyes. 

The party had been too much, and Harry, though it perhaps it sounded rude, much preferred the solitude of his own home, the quiet parlor, the comfort of his small work-room where he did much of his finest work, and his chair by the fire, where he spent much of his time reading the great tales of lands far away. But all of that was not here, no, it was hundreds of miles away.

A movement in the corner of his eye startled him, and Harry snapped to attention. His eyes were, regretfully, not trained in the slightest, and all he could see was a black shadow moving towards him. 

Reminding himself that he was, indeed, at a party with one hundred or more people, Harry forced himself to calm down, his heart slowing as a face became clear in the dim light of the lanterns, shadows flickering about the strange man’s shoulders. 

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, sir,” the mysterious man spoke, his voice smooth, reminding Harry of a brandy he once sampled in Naples— smooth and heavy, the brandy had coated his lips with a honey taste and Harry had desperately craved more. 

“No need for apologies. I’m afraid my tolerance for such scares has reduced greatly as age has set on.”

The man stepped forward slightly, and Harry saw him. Blond hair was cut short at the nape of the stranger’s neck, a dark coat covering a brilliant piece of workmanship on a vest beneath, gold thread woven into what Harry supposed was cotton, cuffs emerging from beneath the coat sleeves. Blunt fingertips reached out to meet Harry’s hand, which was still loose at his side, and Harry started. Just as soon, the fingers recoiled as though they had suffered some grievous injury. 

“My deepest apologies again, sir. I have forgotten myself once more,” Harry looked up into pleading eyes, and he was reminded of the sea on the coast, lapping at his feet so long ago. It was no more but a distant memory, but this young man’s eyes brought it back full force, and Harry nearly breathed long and deep, wondering if the young lad smelled of salt and fish. Those eyes had seen things however, and Harry was keenly familiar with the haunted shadows of little sleep beneath those sea-blue irises and the early wrinkles between a heavy brow that spoke of far too much sorrow and far too little happiness.

Harry smiled instead. 

“No, please. It must be difficult, being home again after the barbarity of the Wars,” Harry nodded to the man’s chest, where a medal perched neatly, snugly tucked against the lapel of his jacket. 

“Of course, that must be it,” his young companion spoke distantly, echoing the sentiment with no thought of it.

“Harold Hart, tailor,” Harry spoke, inclining his head kindly, to look upon the young man’s face more clearly, to see more than the eyes that seemed to capture him so intently, and to draw the young man back to the present. 

Instead, the young man shifted uncomfortably, fussing with his sleeve.

“Er… forgive me, I mustn’t be out so late. I really should be off.”

With one last look back, the young man with no name skipped past Harry and up the steps, melting into the crowd of party-goers and leaving Harry alone in the growing darkness.

Harry Hart went to bed shortly thereafter, and while his eyes scanned the room curiously until his departure, he caught no glimpse of the mysterious young lad with eyes like the sea, and if he dreamed later of a boy by the sea, with tired eyes and a smile that did not ring true, he did not remember it in the morning.


End file.
